Good Soldier
by liebedero
Summary: Michael Westen's early military life in oneshot. a look at his first killing. Who he is lies behind, and inside. The outside is mearly a sheid, built to deflect those who truely wanted to know, those who cared. Rated for some violence.


**A/N: This is a song inspired fiction, the song ' You're Gonna Go Far, Kid' by the Offspring. I own nothing**

**.Mun**

**________________________**

"…2…3,4! " the officer called tension, and the soldier stepped deftly into position. "Take Aim,"

The marker found its target, wavering in motion only slightly, the young soldier gripping it tightly.

"Just remember Soldier, hit the man right between the eyes,"

The soldier gave a quick, stiff nod, followed by a curt, "Sir,"

The Officer stepped back, eyeing the young man. From the beginning he had never had any worries about this one. The soldier was dedicated, steady and sure; cool and calm, a natural born leader, quick witted and not afraid to insubordinate, making him just a little unruly. The fact that he didn't always follow orders only showed which field he belonged in – a special operations field, where he didn't have to work directly for any of the government agencies.

"Sir?"

The Officer snapped from his thoughts to issue the awaited order. "Fire,"

The semi-automatic's report sounded in the steel bunker, ringing loudly. The sound was accompanied by the thud of the body as it full, slumping against the wall. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his nose, from a hole in the man's forehead. A perfect shot.

The Officer couldn't help but feel proud. It was the first man Westen had killed, and the prisoner never had a chance. This kid was going to go far in his military career, but he had to be careful, his insubordination could get him in real trouble with his superiors. Westen was his best.

"Attention Soldier!"

"Sir," was the curt reply from Westen.

"Good work soldier, you're gonna be briefed for Special Ops. That's were you belong. Good work soldier,"

"Sir," the reply was less curt this time, but the newly bred killer still saluted his best and left for his new mandate, very aware that this was the first of many killings that he was to perform.

______________________________

"Marco Denablo, I'm with Italian Special Forces," Michael Westen lied through his teeth, no the first lie he'd ever told, nor would it be his last. His disguise was well planned, his accent heavy, but not forced. He was a natural, just like his Superior officer had told him the day he shot his first man. It was not a day he'd forget.

As a seventeen year old at the time, he'd been cocky, but he had known when to shut up and listen. Now he did whatever he wanted, within mandate. No one would ever have to know it was him. Michael Westen was a ghost, the shadow left behind of a bad childhood and an early military career. Some of the others talked about when the lost their innocence, but Michael always wondered if he'd ever had any. From day one he'd lived a hard life, being at the brunt of his father's abuse, protecting his little brother who turned out to be a compulsive gambler, and supporting for the family. He had learned how to hotwire a car before he turned twelve.

As far a he was concerned there had never been an innocent moment in his life. For all he cared, he'd never see his family again. All his life he had pushed those who cared away, his exterior becoming his shield against those who wanted to know who he was inside. He had tried so hard to keep the inside concealed, to protect himself. This was his chance. The military had been his last resort. And nothing would keep him from getting away. He had been determined, and still was.

It was who Michael Westen was, the shadow that becomes and adapts to his surroundings. The Chameleon, the ghost. And yet… but he never got the chance. Cover blown, he had to fight his way out of a death trap he had created around himself. The Algerian soldier never knew what hit him, never had time to register that Michael was far from what he had thought. Michael picked up the soldier's sunglasses; they had flown from his face when Michael had attacked. He had won them fair and square. Now he could conceal himself more carfully, and would. No one would get near him, not again. No one can do everything on their own, but Michael came close.


End file.
